Some Days, Not so Much

I am struggling with where to begin in telling this portion of my story. Starting at the beginning would require a lot of history and that's boring even to me. There is never a point that I don't remember feeling different. I know I was always very emotional, even as a young child. I see Jeremy this way sometimes; a running over of emotion and a lack of ability to even express why. That's how I felt for a long time. I wrote a detailed suicide note in sixth grade and that was probably when the journey really kicked off. I was hospitalized a month for depression (unheard of today, I know). I tried to learn more about my disease, but struggled even more because my body had decided to develop before I was ready. The boys with whom I was hospitalized were acutely aware that I had developed and so I got a lot of attention (even if it was the wrong kind).

Since that point, I have had a name for the vague darkness that settles over me: depression. I started on medication at that point (around age 11-12) and have been on it off and on (mostly on) since then. For those who have never suffered, I will give you some imagery to help you understand. It's akin to being stuck in a pit that's just deep enough to ensure you can't climb out by yourself. Your friends are at the top of the pit and have thrown down ropes to try to help you out, but from the inside, all you can see is darkness. You can't see the rope or hear your friends shouting for you to climb out. All you hear is the thousands of negative moments being replayed over the PA system, over and over. Underneath that is the constant stream of "you're not good enough, you're not good enough.." over and over and over. It causes you to cry for reasons that aren't always clear to you (or others). It causes you to forget to eat (or, in my case eat to try to drown out the voices). It manifests itself in a million different ways. The worst part of this ailment is that it tries to convince you that you're well. The times I've been off my medications, I've convinced myself I was fine and didn't need them. Invariably, I fell into a deeper pit.

I have unsuccessfully tried to take my life on several occasions. At the time, there wasn't a cosmic question not being answered. I hate when people dismiss failed suicide attempts as "cries for help." If I feel like that's the cry that's loud enough, then can't you see that there's something not being processed correctly? I have a keen ear and empathetic heart for those around me who are suffering. Like most other people suffering with depression, though, I have a difficult time turning that caring around on myself. I put myself last on the list repeatedly, now under the guise of being a mom and not having time. I was in therapy at the end of last year, but owing to our financial struggles, I had to stop going. Part of me was relieved because it was exhausting to try to coordinate childcare with my appointments. The other part wishes I could still be going.

I am an extrovert; outspoken, jovial and quick to smile. However, when I am in the pit, I find reasons to isolate, to stay home and keep to myself. I tell everyone that things are going well. I throw myself into my FB games and watch old TV shows obsessively on Netflix. I don't eat foods that honor my body. I don't make time to exercise. Last week, for example, things were going well. I got out of the house a few times on my own, I was able to see friends and fellowship. This week, however, Bekah has started with another cold. That has put us back on house arrest and necessarily means I won't be seeing any of my friends (and their kids) this week. It's the damndest thing; when I am ready to be out with other people, to try to shake off the cloying robe of failure that sticks to me, I can't. And so the robe tightens.

I watch my children everyday, trying to see if I can discern any of this in their behavior. I worry on days like today, when Jeremy was crying after his nap and it took me a while to settle him down. He is 3 and articulate but can't differentiate emotions very well. I try to draw him out when he is upset, asking him if he is angry or sad or upset and he can't tell me. He was born into a family that is predisposed to depression, heart disease, alcoholism and obesity. I work as hard as I can to make sure he is not swallowed up by any of these diseases. I try to help him eat right, make sure (as much as is possible) that he gets exercise every day, doesn't have a lot of sugary products, etc. I asked his pediatrician if there was any way to know whether he would be afflicted by depression. He told me no. So I try to teach him that feelings are okay, whatever they are; it's in the expressing of them that we need to be careful. I understand that you're pissed about going to bed, I tell him, but it's not okay to hit your sister and throw your toys. I try to remind him to take deep breaths. I hold him close when he's crying and just say over and over that I love him very much. I don't make fun of him crying, ever. I praise him when I see him caring for his little sister or other kids.

There is a lot of joy and laughter in my home. My husband has me almost constantly in stitches. He has watched me suffer through this awful disease for as long as we've been together. He never dismisses my emotions and he is also very sensitive to Jeremy's mood swings. We never hesitated, though, to get pregnant. I know that some might say, "well, with that history, why would you even try to get pregnant?" I don't have a concrete answer. I love my children fiercely every day, even if I am not always able to show it the way I would like to. Someone told me I would love them from the moment they entered this world. I'm not sure about that, but I do love them now in a visceral way. In spite of my anxieties about my son's emotional health, I am so proud of him because of all the things he does well. I know he is going to have a positive impact on the world around him and so I'm just trying to do everything I can to stay out of the way of that. God has a plan for him and I know the best way I can help God is not to be underfoot.

I hope Jeremy and Bekah can either step around the pit or at least recognize the pit for what it is. I hope that I can be open enough with them that they feel safe to ask me for help. I hope that on my bad days, when I can't hold back the tears even in front of them, that they understand that my love for them is not capricious. I work hard at keeping my mental health so that I can show them that they can be well enough to let other people pull them out of the pit, if they ever do fall in.

Most days I'm really okay. Some days, not so much. But I will go to bed and (hopefully) wake up tomorrow and try again to let people pull me out.

I wonder what I'll write about tomorrow....